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FIRES 



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BY 



WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 

AUTHOR OF "DAILY BREAD" 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1912 

A a rights reserved 



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Copyright, 1912, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped. Published January, X912. 



J. S. Gushing Co. —Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



©CI.A309015 



NO, » 






TO 

GEORGE CLAUSEN 

A TRIBUTE 



Snug in my easy chair^ 

I stirred the fire to flame. 

Fantastically fair, 

The flickering fancies came^ 

Born of hearfs desire : 

Amber woodlands streaming; 

Topaz islands dreaming; 

Sunset-cities gleaming, 

Spire on burning spire ; 

Ruddy-windowed taverns ; 

Sunshine-spilling wines ; 

Crystal-lighted caverns 

Of Golconda'^s mines ; 

Summers, unreturning; 

White-hot passions yearning; 

Troy, the ever-burning ; 

Shellefs lustral pyre; 

Dragon-eyes, unsleeping ; 

Fiery fountains leaping ; 

Golden galleys sweeping 

Out from sea-walled Tyre: 

Fancies, fugitive and fair. 

Flashed with singing through the air; 

Till, dazzled by the drowsy glare, 

I shut my eyes to heat and light ; 

And saw, in sudde7i night, 

Crouched in the dripping dark. 

With steaming shoulders stark. 

The man who hews the coal to feed my fire. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Stone ii 

The Wife 15 

The Machine 21 

The Lodestone 26 

The Shop 34 

Flannan Isle 43 

The Blind Rower . . . . . .47 

The Brothers 50 

The Flute 57 



Thanks are due to the editors of The, English Review 
and The Spectator /or leave to reprint some of these 
tales. 



lO 



BOOK I 
THE STONE, AND OTHER TALES 



FIRES 



THE STONE 

" And will you cut a stone for him, 
To set above his head ? 
And will you cut a stone for him — 
A stone for him? " she said. 

Three days before a splintered rock 
Had struck her lover dead — 
Had struck him in the quarry dead, 
Where, careless of the warning call, 
He loitered, while the shot was fired — 
A lively stripling, brave and tall, 
And sure of all his heart desired . . . 
A flash, a shock, 
A rumbling fall . . . 
And, broken 'neath the broken rock, 
A lifeless heap, with face of clay, 
And still as any stone he lay. 
With eyes that saw the end of all. 

I went to break the news to her : 
And I could hear my own heart beat 
With dread of what my lips might say. 
II 



THE STONE 

But, some poor fool had sped before ; 
And, flinging wide her father's door, 
Had blurted out the news to her, 
Had struck her lover dead for her. 
Had struck the girl's heart dead in her, 
Had struck hfe, lifeless, at a word, 
And dropped it at her feet : 
Then hurried on his foolish way, 
Scarce knowing she had heard. 

And when I came, she stood, alone, 
A woman, turned to stone : 
And, though no word at all she said, 
I knew that all was known. 

Because her heart was dead, 
She did not sigh nor moan, 
His mother wept: 
She could not weep. 
Her lover slept : 
She could not sleep. 
Three days, three nights. 
She hardly stirred : 
Three days, three nights. 
She spoke no word ; 
Nor ever closed her eyes. 
From sunset to sunrise. 
From dawn to evenfall, 
Her tearless, staring eyes. 
That, seeing naught, saw all. 

The fourth night when I came from work, 

I found her at my door. 

*^ And will you cut a stone for him ? " 

12 



THE STONE 

She said : and spoke no more : 

But followed me, as I went in, 

And sank upon a chair ; 

And fixed her grey eyes on my face, 

With still, unseeing stare. 

And, as she waited patiently, 

I could not bear to feel 

Those still, grey eyes that followed me. 

Those eyes that plucked the heart from me, 

Those eyes that sucked the breath from me, 

And curdled the warm blood in me, 

Those eyes that cut me to the bone. 

And pierced my marrow like cold steel. 

And so I rose, and sought a stone ; 

And cut it, smooth and square : 

And, as I worked, she sat and watched, 

Beside me, in her chair. 

Night after night, by candlelight, 

I cut her lover's name : 

Night after night, so still and white, 

And like a ghost she came ; 

And sat beside me, in her chair ; 

And watched with eyes aflame. 

She eyed each stroke ; 

And hardly stirred : 

She never spoke 

A single word : 

And not a sound or murmur broke 

The quiet, save the mallet-stroke. 

With still eyes ever on my hands, 

With eyes that seemed to burn my hands, 

13 



THE STONE 

My aching, overwearied hands, 
She watched, with bloodless lips apart, 
And silent, indrawn breath : 
And every stroke my chisel cut, 
Death cut still deeper in her heart ; 
The two of us were chiselHng, 
Together, I and death. 

And when at length the job was done, 

And I had laid the mallet by. 

As if, at last, her peace were won. 

She breathed his name ; and, with a sigh, 

Passed slowly through the open door : 

And never crossed my threshold more. 

Next night I laboured late, alone, 
To cut her name upon the stone. 



14 



THE WIFE 

That night, she dreamt that he had died, 
As they were sleeping, side by side : 
And she awakened in affright, 
To think of him, so cold and white : 
And, when she turned her eyes to him. 
The tears of dream had made them dim ; 
And, for a while, she could not see 
That he was sleeping quietly. 
But, as she saw him lying there, 
The moonUght on his curly hair, 
With happy face and even breath. 
Although she thought no more of death ; 
And it was very good to rest 
Her trembhng hand on his calm breast. 
And feel the warm and breathing Hfe ; 
And know that she was still his wife ; 
Yet, in his bosom's easy stir. 
She felt a something trouble her ; 
And wept again, she knew not why ; 
And thought it would be good to die — 
To sink into the deep, sweet rest, 
Her hand upon his quiet breast. ) 

She slept : and when she woke again, 
A bird was at the window-pane, 
A wild-eyed bird, with wings of white 
That fluttered in the cold moonlight, 

IS 



THE WIFE 

As though for very fear of night ; 
And flapped the pane, as if afraid : 
Yet, not a sound the white wings made. 
Her eyes met those beseeching eyes ; 
And then she felt she needs must rise, 
To let the poor, wild creature in 
To find the rest it sought to win. 
She rose ; and set the window wide; 
And caught the murmur of the tide ; 
And saw, afar, the mounded graves 
About the church beside the waves : 
The huddled headstones gleaming white 
And ghostly in the cold moonlight. 

The bird flew straightway to the bed ; 
And hovered o'er the husband's head. 
And circled thrice above his head. 
Three times above his dreaming head : 
And, as she watched it flying round. 
She wondered that it made no sound ; 
And, while she wondered, it was gone : 
And cold and white, the moonlight shone 
Upon her husband, sleeping there ; 
And turned to silver his gold hair ; 
And paled like death his ruddy face. 
Then, creeping back into her place. 
She lay beside him in the bed : 
But, if she closed her eyes, with dread 
She saw that wild bird's eyes that burned 
Through her shut eyelids, though she turned 
Her blessings over in her heart. 
That peace might come : and with a start, 
If she but drowsed, or dreamt of rest, 
i6 



THE WIFE 

She felt that wild beak in her breast. 

So, wearying /or the time to rise, 

She watched, till dawn was in the skies. 

Her husband woke : but not a word 
She told him of the strange, white bird : 
But as, at breakfast-time, she took 
A pan of porridge from the crook ; 
And all was ready to begin ; 
A neighbour gossip hurried in ; 
And told the news, that Phoebe Wright 
Had died in childbirth in the night. 
The husband neither spoke, nor stirred, 
But sat as one who, having heard, 
May never hearken to a word 
From any living lips again ; 
And heedless of the tongues of men, 
Hears, in a silence dread and deep. 
The dead folk talking in their sleep. 
His porridge stood till it was cold : 
And as he sat, his face grew old ; 
And all his yellow hair turned white. 
As it had looked to her last night. 
When it was drenched with cold moonlight. 
And she knew all : but never said 
A word to him about the dead ; 
Or pestered him to take his meat : 
But, sitting silent in her seat. 
She left him quiet with his heart 
To thoughts in which she had no part ; 
Until he rose to go about 
His daily work ; and staggered out. 
And all that day, her eyes were dim 
I. 17 C 



THE WIFE 

That she had borne no child to him. 
Days passed : and then, one evening late, 
As she came by the churchyard-gate, 
She saw him, near the new-made grave : 
And, with a lifted head and brave, 
She hurried home, lest he should know 
That she had looked upon his woe. 
And when they sat beside the fire. 
Although it seemed he could not tire 
Of gazing on the glowing coal, 
And though a fire was in her soul, 
She sat beside him with a smile. 
Lest he should look on her, the while, 
And wonder what could make her sad, 
When all the world but him was glad. 
But, not a word to her he said : 
And silently they went to bed. 

She never closed her eyes that night : 
And she was stirring ere the light ; 
And while her husband lay at rest, 
She left his side, and quickly dressed ; 
And stole downstairs, as though in fear 
That he should chance to wake, and hear. 
And still the stars were shining bright. 
As she passed out into the night ; 
And all the dewy air was sweet 
With flowers that grew about her feet. 
Where he, for her, when they were wed. 
Had digged and sown a wallflower bed : 
And on the rich, deep, mellow scent 
A gust of memories came and went. 
As, dreaming of those old glad hours, 
i8 



THE WIFE 

She stooped to pluck a bunch of flowers, 
To lay upon the flowerless grave 
That held his heart beside the wave. 
Though, like a troop of ghosts in white. 
The headstones watched in cold starlight, 
As, by the dead girl's grave she knelt, 
No fear in her full heart she felt : 
But hurried home, when she had laid 
Her offering on the turf, afraid 
That he should wake, and find her gone : 
And still the stars in heaven shone, 
When into bed again she crept. 
And lay beside him, while he slept. 
And when day came, upon his hair. 
The warm light fell : and young and fair, 
He looked again to her kind eyes 
That watched him till 'twas time to rise. 

And, every day, as he went by 

The churchyard-gate with downcast eye, 

He saw fresh flowers upon the grave 

That held his heart beside the wave : 

And, wondering, he was glad to find 

That any living soul was kind 

To that dead girl who died the death 

Of shame for his sake : and the breath 

Of those fresh flowers to him was sweet. 

As he trudged home with laggard feet. 

Still wondering who could be her friend. 

He never knew, until the end, 

When, in the churchyard by the wave. 

He stood beside another grave : 

19 



THE WIFE 

And, as the priest's last words were said, 

He turned, and lifting up his head, 

He saw the bunch of flowers was dead 

Upon the dead girPs grave ; and felt 

The truth shoot through his heart, and melt 

The frost of icy bitterness, 

And flood his heart with warm distress : 

And, kneeling by his dead wife's grave, 

To her, at last, her hour he gave. 

That night, she dreamt that he had died, 
And they were sleeping, side by side. 



20 



THE MACHINE 

Since Thursday he*d been working overtime, 

With only three short hours for food and sleep, 

When no sleep came, because of the dull beat 

Of his fagged brain ; and he could scarcely eat. 

And now, on Saturday, when he was free. 

And all his fellows hurried home to tea. 

He was so dazed that he could hardly keep 

His hands from going through the pantomime 

Of keeping even sheets in his machine — 

The sleek machine that, day and night. 

Fed with paper, virgin white. 

Through those glaring, flaring hours 

In the incandescent light, 

Printed children's picture-books — 

Red and yellow, blue and green. 

With sunny fields and running brooks. 

Ships at sea, and golden sands. 

Strange white towns in Eastern lands, 

Tossing palms on coral strands — 

Until at times the clank and whirr and click, 

And shimmer of white paper turned him sick ; 

And though at first the colours made him glad. 

They soon were dancing in his brain like mad ; 

And kept on flaring through his burning head. 

Now, in a flash, the workshop, flaming red ; 

21 



THE MACHINE 

Now blazing green ; now glowing blue ; 

And then the yellow glare too well he knew ; 

Until the sleek machine, with roar and glare, 

Began to take him in a dazzling snare ; 

When, fascinated, with a senseless stare, 

It drew him slowly towards it, till his hair 

Was caught betwixt the rollers ; but his hand, 

Almost before his brain could understand. 

Had clutched the lever ; and the wheels were stopped 

Just in the nick of time ; though now he dropped, 

Half-senseless on the littered workshop floor ; 

And he*d lain dazed a minute there or more, 

When his machine-girl helped him to a seat. 

But soon again he was upon his feet. 

And tending that unsatisfied machine ; 

And printing pictures, red and blue and green. 

Until again the green and blue and red 

Went jigging in a riot through his head; 

And, wildest of the raging rout, 

The blinding, screeching, racking yellow — 

A crazy devil of a fellow — 

0*er all the others seemed to shout. 

For hands must not be idle when the year 

Is getting through, and Christmas drawing near. 

With piles on piles of picture-books to print 

For people who spend money without stint. 

And, while they're paying down their liberal gold, 

Guess little what is bought, and what is sold. 



But he, at last, was free till Monday, free 
To sleep, to eat, to dream, to sulk, to walk. 
To laugh, to sing, to whistle, or to talk . . . 
If only, through his brain, unceasingly, 

22 



THE MACHINE 

The wheels would not keep whirring, while the smell - 

The oily smell of thick and sticky glaze 

Clung to his nostrils, till 'twas hard to tell 

If he were really out in the fresh air ; 

And still before his eyes the blind, white glare. 

And then the colours dancing in his head, 

A maddening maze of yellow, blue and red. 

So, on he wandered in a kind of daze. 

Too racked with sleeplessness to think of bed 

Save as a hell, where you must toss and toss 

With colours flashing in insane criss-cross 

Before wide, prickling, gritty, sleepless eyes. 

But, as he walked along the darkening street, 
Too tired to rest, and far too spent to eat. 
The swish and patter of the passing feet. 
The living, human, murmur, and shrill cries. 
The deep, cool shadows of the coming night. 
Breaking in starry foam of kindling light ; 
And the fresh breathing of the rain-cooled air. 
Brought something of sweet healing to his mind ; 
And, though he trailed along as if half- blind. 
Yet often on the pavement he would stop 
To gaze at goods displayed within a shop ; 
And wonder in a dull and lifeless way. 
What they had cost, and who'd the price to pay. 
But those two kinds of shop which, as a boy, 
Had been to him a never-ending joy, 
The bookshop and the fruitshop, he passed by, 
As if their colours seared his wincing eye ; 
For still he feared the yellow, blue, and red 
Would start the devils' dancing in his head. 
And soon, through throngs of people, almost gay 

23 



THE MACHINE 

To be let loose from work, he pushed his way ; 

And echoes of their careless laughter stole 

Like a cool stream of waters through his soul, 

While sometimes he would Hft his aching eyes. 

And see a child's face flushed with proud surprise, 

As, gripping both its parents' hands quite tight, 

It found itself in fairylands of light. 

Walking with grown-up people through the night ; 

Then, turning, with a shudder he would see 

Poor painted faces, leering frightfully. 

And so drop back from heaven again to hell. 

And then, somehow, though how he scarce could tell. 
He found that he was walking through the throng. 
Quite happy, with a young girl at his side — 
A young girl, apple-cheeked and eager-eyed ; 
And her frank, friendly chatter seemed a song 
To him, who ne'er till now had heard life sing. 
And hope and courage in his heart grew strong. 
As he drank in that careless chattering. 
And now she told to him how she had come 
From some far Northern Isle to earn her bread ; 
And in a stuffy office all day long, 
In shining ledgers, with a splitting head. 
She added dazzHng figures till they danced. 
And tied themselves in knots, and jigged and pranced, 
And scrambled helter-skelter o'er the page. 
And though it seemed already quite an age 
Since she had left her home, from end to end 
Of this big town she had not any friend ; 
At times she almost dreaded she'd go dumb, 
With not a soul to speak to ; for, at home 
In her own Island, she knew everyone . . . 

24 



THE MACHINE 

No strangers there ! save when the tinkers came, 

With pots and pans aglinting in the sun — 

You saw the tin far off, like glancing flame, 

As all about the Island they would roam. 

Then of themselves at home ; there were six brothers, 

Five sisters, with herself, besides the others — 

Two homeless babes, whom, having lost their mothers, 

Her mother'd taken in among her own . . . 

And she in all her life had hardly known 

Her mother with no baby at her breast . . . 

She'd always sing to hush them all to sleep ; 

And sang, too, for the dancing, sang to keep 

The feet in time and tune ; and still sang best, 

Clean best of all the singers of the Isle. 

And as she talked of home, he saw her smile. 

With happy, far-off gaze ; and then as though 

In wonder how she'd come to chatter so 

To this pale, grave-eyed boy, she paused, half shy ; 

And then she laughed, with laughter clear and true ; 

And looked into his eyes ; and he laughed too. 

And they were happy, hardly knowing why. 

And now he told her of his life, and how 

He too had been nigh friendless, until now. 

And soon he talked to her about his work ; 

But, when he spoke of it, as with a jerk, 

The light dropped from his eyes. He seemed to slip 

Once more in the machine's relentless grip ; 

And hear again the clank and whirr and click ; 

And see the dancing colours and the glare ; 

Until his dizzy brain again turned sick ; 

And seeing him look round with vacant air. 

Fierce pity cut her to the very quick ; 

25 



THE MACHINE 

And as her eyes with keen distress were filled, 

She touched his hand ; and soon her kind touch stilled 

The agony ; and so, to bring him ease. 

She told more of that Isle in Northern seas. 

Where she was born, and of the folks at home ; 

And how, all night, you heard the wash of foam . . , 

Sometimes, on stormy nights, against the pane 

The flying spray would rattle just like rain ; 

And oft the high-tides swept the threshold clean • . . 

And, as she talked, he saw the sea-light glint 

In her dark eyes : and then the sleek machine 

Lost hold on him at last ; and ceased to print ; 

And in his eyes there sprang a kindred light. 

As, hand in hand, they wandered through the night. 



THE LODESTONE 

From hag to hag, across the quaking moss. 
Benighted, in an unknown countryside. 
Among strange hills, with but the stars for guide ; 
Bewildered by peat-waters, black and deep. 
Wherein the mocking stars swam ; spent for sleep ; 
0*er-wearied by long trudging ; at a loss 
Which way to turn for shelter from the night ; 
I struggled on, until, my head grown light 
From utter weariness, I almost sank 
To rest among the tussocks, soft and dank, 

26 



THE LODESTONE 

Drowsing, half-dazed, and murmuring : it were best 
To stray no further ! but, to lie at rest. 
Beneath the cold, white stars, for evermore ; 
When, suddenly, I came across 
A runnel oozing from the moss ; 
And knew that, if I followed where it led, 
'Twould bring me to a valley, in the end, 
Where there 'd be houses, and, perhaps a bed. 

And so, the little runnel was my friend ; 

And as I walked beside its path, at first 

It kept a friendly silence; then it burst 

Into a friendly singing, as it rambled, 

Among big boulders, down a craggy steep, 

'Mid bracken, nigh breast-deep. 

Through which I scrambled, 

Half-blind and numb for sleep. 

Until it seemed that I could strive no more : 

When, startled by a startled sheep, 

Looking down, I saw a track — 

A stony trackway, dimly white. 

Disappearing in the night. 

Across a waste of heather, burnt and black. 

And so, I took it, mumbling o*er and o'er. 

In witlessness of weariness. 

And featherheaded foolishness : 

A track must lead, at sometime, to a door. 

And, trudging to this senseless tune. 
That kept on drumming in my head, 
I followed where the pathway led ; 
But, all too soon. 
It left the ling, and nigh was lost 

27 



THE LODESTONE 

Among the bent that gHmmered grey 

About my sore-bewildered way : 

But when, at length, it crossed 

A brawling burn, I saw, afar, 

A cottage window Hght — 

A star, but no cold, heavenly star — 

A warm red star of welcome in the night. 

Far off, it burned upon the black hillside, 
Sole star of earth in all that waste so wide : 
A little human lantern in the night, 
Yet, more to me than all the bright 
Unfriendly stars of heaven, so cold and white. 

And, as it dimly shone. 

Though towards it I could only go 

With stumbling step and slow. 

It kindled in my heart a kindred glow ; 

And seemed to draw me on 

That last rough mile or so, 

Now seen, now hidden, when the track 

Dipped down into a slack. 

And all the earth again was black : 

And once, in a dark hollow, from the fern, 

Like the grey ghost of all bewildered things. 

An owl brushed by me on unrustling wings, 

And gave me quite a turn. 

And sent a shiver through my hair. 

Then, again, more fair 
Flashed the friendly Hght, 
Beckoning through the night, 
A golden, glowing square, 

28 



THE LODESTONE 

Growing big and clearer, 

As I drew slowly nearer, 

With eager, stumbling feet ; 

And snuffed the homely reek of peat : 

And saw, above me, lone and high, 

A cottage, dark against the sky — 

A candle shining on the window-sill. 

With thankful heart, I climbed the hill ; 
And stood, at last, before 
The dark and unknown door. 
Wondering if food and shelter lay behind, 
And what the welcome I should find, 
W^hether kindly, or unkind : 
But I had scarcely knocked, to learn my fate, 
When the latch lifted, and the door swung wide 
On creaking hinges ; and I saw, inside, 
A frail old woman, very worn and white. 
Her body all atremble in the light. 
Who gazed with strange, still eyes into the night, 
As though she did not see me, but looked straight 
Beyond me, to some unforgotten past : 
And I was startled when she said at last. 
With strange, still voice : " You're welcome, though you're 
late." 

And then, an old man, nodding in a chair. 
Beside the fire, awoke with sleepy stare ; 
And rose in haste ; and led her to a seat. 
Beside the cosy hearth of glowing peat ; 
And muttered to me, as he took her hand : 
" It's queer, it's queer, that she, to-night, should stand, 
Who has not stood alone for fifteen year. 

29 



THE LODESTONE 

Though I heard nothing, she was quick to hear. 

I must have dozed ; but she has been awake, 

And listening for your footstep since daybreak : 

For she was certain you would come to-day ; 

Aye, she was sure, for all that I could say : 

Talk as I might, she would not go to bed. 

Till you should come. Your supper has been spread 

This long while : you'll be ready for your meat.'' 

With that he beckoned me to take a seat 

Before the table, Hfting from the crook 

The singing kettle ; while, with far-off look, 

As though she neither saw nor heard, 

His wife sat gazing at the glowing peat. 

So, wondering sorely, I sat down to eat ; 

And still she neither spoke, nor stirred ; 

But in her high-backed chair sat bolt upright. 

With still, grey eyes ; and tumbled hair, as white 

As fairy-cotton, straggling o'er her brow, 

And hung in wisps about her wasted cheek. 

But, when I'd finished, and drew near the fire, 

She suddenly turned round to speak, 

Her old eyes kindling with a tense desire. 

Her words came tremblingly : '^ You'll tell me now 

What news you bring of him, my son ? " Amazed, 

I met that eager and love-famished look : 

And then the old man, seeing I was dazed. 

Made shift to swing the kettle from the crook; 

And muttered in my ear : 

" John Netherton, his name ; " and as I gazed 

Into the peat that broke in clear blue flame. 

Remembrance flashed upon me with the name ; 

And I slipped back in memory twenty year — 

30 



THE LODESTONE 

Back to the fo'c^sle of a villainous boat ; 

And once again in that hot hell I lay, 

Watching the smoky lantern duck and sway, 

As though in steamy stench it kept afloat ; 

While fever set its fangs upon my throat; 

And my poor broken arm, ill- set. 

Burned hke a bar of iron at my side : 

And, as I lay, with staring eyes set wide, 

Throughout eternities of agony, 

I saw a big, black shadow stoop o'er me ; 

And felt a cool hand touch my brow, and wet 

My cracking lips : and sank in healing sleep : 

And when I waked from slumber long and deep, 

I saw the youngest of that rascal crew 

Beside my bunk ; and heard his name ; and knew 

Twas he who'd brought me ease : but, soon, ashore. 

We parted; and I never saw him more; 

Though, some while after, in another place, 

I heard he'd perished in a drunken brawl . . . 

And now the old man touched me, to recall 

My wandering thoughts ; and breathed again the name : 

And I looked up into the mother's face 

That burned before me with grey eyes aflame. 

And so I told her how I'd met her son ; 

And of the kindly things that he had done. 

And as I spoke her quivering spirit drank 

The news that it had thirsted for so long ; 

And for a flashing moment gay and strong 

Life flamed in her old eyes, then slowly sank. 

"And he was happy when you saw him last? " 

She asked : and I was glad to answer, ** Yes." 

Then all sat dreaming without stir or sound, 

31 



TPIE LODESTONE 

As gradually she sank into the past, 

With eyes that looked beyond all happiness, 

Beyond all earthly trouble and distress, 

Into some other world than ours. The thread 

That long had held the straining life earthbound 

Was loosed at last : her eyes grew dark : her head 

Drooped slowly on her breast ; and she was dead. 

The old man at her side spoke not a word, 

As we arose, and bore her to the bed ; 

And laid her on the clean, white quilt at rest 

With calm hands folded on her quiet breast. 

And, hour by hour, he hardly even stirred, 

Sitting beside me in the ingleseat ; 

And staring, staring at the dull red glow : 

But, only when the fire was burning low, 

He rose to bring fresh peat ; 

And muttered with dull voice and slow : 

"This fire has ne'er burned out through all these years — 

Not since the hearthstone first was set — 

And that is nigh two hundred year ago. 

My father's father built this house ; and I . . . 

I thought my son ..." and then he gave a sigh ; 

And as he stooped, his wizened cheek was wet 

With slowly- falling tears. 

And now he hearkened, while an owPs shrill cry 

Sang through the silence, as it fluttered nigh 

The cottage-window, dazzled by the light. 

Then back, with fainter hootings, into night. 

But, when the fresh peats broke into a blaze, 
He watched it with a steady, dry-eyed gaze ; 

32 



THE LODESTONE 

And spoke once more : " And he dead, too ! 
You did not tell her ; but I knew ... I knew 1 ** 

And now came all the tale of their distress : 

Their only son, in wanton waywardness. 

Had left them, nearly thirty year ago ; 

And they had never had a word from him 

In ail that time . . . the bitter blow 

Of his unkindness struck his mother low . . • 

Her hair, as ruddy as the fern 

In late September by a moorland burn, 

Had faded rimy-white 

In one short summer's night : 

And they had looked, and looked for his return . . . 

His mother set for him at every meal. 

And kept his bed well-aired . . . the knife and fork 

I'd used were John's . . . but, as all hope grew dim, 

His mother dwindled feebler every day : 

Though, when it seemed that she must pass away, 

She grew more confident that, ere she passed, 

A stranger would bring news to her, at last, 

Of her lost son. "And when I woke in bed 

Beside her, as the dawn was burning red. 

She turned to me, with sleepless eyes, and said : 

* The news will come, to-day.' " 

He spoke no more : and silent in my seat. 

With burning eyes upon the burning peat, 

I pondered on this strangest of strange things 

That had befallen in my vagrant life : 

And how, at last, my idle wanderings 

Had brought me to this old man and his wife, 

And as I brooded o'er the blaze 

I. 33 ^ 



THE LODESTONE 

I thought with awe of that steadfast desire 

Which, unto me unknown, 

Had drawn me through long years, by such strange ways, 

From that dark fo'c'sle to this cottage-fire. 

And now, at last, quite spent, I dropped asleep ; 

And slumbered long and deep : 

And when I waked, the peats were smouldering white 

Upon the white hearthstone : 

And over heath and bent the dawn burned bright 

Above dark ridges in a rosy fleece : 

While from the little window morning light 

Fell on her face, made holy with the peace 

That passeth understanding ; and was shed 

In tender beams upon the low-bowed head 

Of that old man, forlorn beside the bed. 



THE SHOP 

Tin- tinkle- tinkle- tinkle, went the bell. 
As I pushed in ; and, once again, the smell 
Of groceries, and news-sheets freshly-printed, 
That always greeted me when I looked in 
To buy my evening-paper : but, to-night, 
I wondered not to see the well-known face. 
With kind, brown eyes, and ever-friendly smile. 
Behind the counter ; and to find the place 

34 



THE SHOP 

Deserted at this hour, and not a light 

In either window. Waiting there, a while, 

Though wondering at what change these changes hinted, 

I yet was grateful for the quiet gloom — 

Lit only by a gleam from the back-room, 

And, here and there, a glint of glass and tin — 

So pleasant, after all the flare and din 

And hubbub of the foundry : and my eyes, 

Still tingUng from the smoke, were glad to rest 

Upon the ordered shelves, so neatly dressed 

That, even in the dusk, they seemed to tell 

No little of the hand that kept them clean. 

And of the head that sorted things so well 

That naught of waste or worry could be seen. 

And kept all sweet with ever-fresh suppHes. 

And, as I thought upon her quiet way, 

Wondering what could have got her, that she'd left 

The shop, unlit, untended, and bereft 

Of her kind presence, overhead I heard 

A tiptoe creak, as though somebody stirred, 

With careful step, across the upper floor : 

Then all was silent, till the back-room door 

Was opened ; and her husband hurried in. 

He feared he'd kept me, waiting in the dark ; 

And he was sorry : but his wife who served 

The customers at night-time usually — 

While he made up the ledger after tea. 

Was busy, when ! . . . Well, to tell the truth, 

They were in trouble, for their little son 

Had come in ill from school . . . the doctor said 

Pneumonia . . . they'd been putting him to bed : 

Perhaps, I'd heard them, moving overhead, 

35 



THE SHOP 

For boards would creak, and creak, for all your care. 

They hoped the best; for he was young; and youth 

Could come through much ; and all that could be done 

Would be . . . then he stood, listening, quite unnerved, 

As though he heard a footstep on the stair, 

Though I heard nothing: but at my remark 

About the fog and sleet, he turned. 

And answered quickly, as there burned 

In his brown eyes a warm, bright flame : 

The raw and damp were much to blame : 

If but his son could breathe West-country air ! 

A certain Cornish village he could name 

Was just the place ; if he could send him there, 

And only for a week, he*d come back stronger . . . 

And then, again, he listened : and I took 

My paper, and went, afraid to keep him longer ; 

And left him standing with that haggard look. 

Next night, as I pushed in, there was no tinkle : 

And, looking up, I saw the bell was gone. 

Although, in either window, the gas shone ; 

And I was greeted by a cheery twinkle 

Of burnished tins and bottles from the shelves : 

And now, I saw the father busy there 

Behind the counter, cutting with a string 

A bar of soap up for a customer, 

With weary eyes, and jerky, harassed air, 

As if his mind were hardly on the task : 

And when *twas done, and parcelled up for her, 

And she had gone; he turned to me, and said : 

He thought that folks might cut their soap themselves • • • 

Twas nothing much . . . but any little thing. 

At such a time . . . And, having little doubt 

36 



THE SHOP 

The boy was worse, I did not like to ask; 
But picked my paper up, and hurried out. 

And, all next day, amid the glare and clang 

And clatter of the workshop, his words rang ; 

And kept on ringing, in my head a ring ; 

But any little thing ... at such a time ... 

And kept on chiming to the anvils' chime : 

But any little thing ... at such a time . . . 

And they were hissed and sputtered in the sizzle 

Of water on hot iron : little thing . . . 

At such a time : and, when I left, at last. 

The smoke and steam; and walked through the cold 

drizzle, 
The lumbering of the 'buses as they passed 
Seemed full of it ; and to the passing feet. 
The words kept patter, patter, with dull beat. 

I almost feared to turn into their street. 

Lest I should find the blinds down in the shop ! 

And, more than once, I'd half-a-mind to stop, 

And buy my paper from the yelling boys. 

Who darted all about with such a noise 

That I half- wondered, in a foolish way. 

How they could shriek so, knowing that the sound 

Must worry children, lying ill in bed . . . 

Then, thinking even they must earn their bread, 

As I earned mine, and scarce as noisily ! 

I wandered on ; and very soon I found 

I'd followed where my thoughts had been all day, 

And stood before the shop, relieved to see 

The gases burning, and no window-blind 

Of blank foreboding. With an easier mind, 

37 



THE SHOP 

I entered slowly ; and was glad to find 
The father by the counter, waiting me, 
With paper ready and a cheery face. 
Yes ! yes ! the boy was better . . . took the turn, 
Last night, just after I had left the place. 
He feared that he'd been short and cross last night 
But, when a little child was suffering, 
It worried you . . . and any little thing. 
At such a moment, made you cut up rough : 
Though, now that he was going on all right . . . 
Well, he'd have patience, now, to be polite ! 
And, soon as ever he was well enough, 
The boy should go to Cornwall for a change — 
Should go to his own home ; for he, himself, 
Was Cornish, born and bred, his wife as well : 
And still his parents lived in the old place — 
A little place, as snug as snug could be . . . 
Where apple-blossoms dipped into the sea . . . 
Perhaps, to strangers' ears, that sounded strange. 
But not to any Cornishman who knew 
How sea and land ran up into each other; 
And how, all round each wide, blue estuary, 
The flowers were blooming to the waters' edge : 
You'd come on blue-bells Hke a sea of blue . . . 
But they would not be out for some while yet . . . 
'Twould be primroses, blowing everywhere, 
Primroses, and primroses, and primroses . . . 
You'd never half-know what primroses were. 
Unless you'd seen them growing in the West ; 
But, having seen, would never more forget. 
Why, every bank, and every lane and hedge 
Was just one blaze of yellow ; and the smell. 
When the sun shone upon them, after wet . . . 

38 



THE SHOP 

And his eyes sparkled, as he turned to sell 
A penny loaf and half-an-ounce of tea 
To a poor child, who waited patiently, 
With hacking cough that tore her hollow chest : 
And, as she went out, clutching tight the change, 
He muttered to himself: It's strange, it's strange 
That little ones should suffer so. . . . The light 
Had left his eyes : but, when he turned to me, 
I saw a flame leap in them, hot and bright 
I'd like to take them all, he said, to-night ! 

And, in the workshop, all through the next day, 

The anvils had another tune to play . . . 

Primroses, and primroses, and primroses : 

The bellows puffing out : It's strange, it's strange 

That little ones should suffer so . . . 

And now, my hammer, at a blow : 

I'd like to take them all, to-night ! 

And, in the clouds of steam, and white-hot glow, 

I seemed to see primroses everywhere, 

Primroses, and primroses, and primroses. 

And, each night after that, I heard the boy 

Was mending quickly ; and would soon be well : 

Till one night I was startled by the bell : 

Tin-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle, loud and clear ; 

And tried to hush it, lest the boy should hear. 

But, when the father saw me clutch the thing. 

He said, the boy had missed it yesterday ; 

And wondered why he could not hear it ring; 

And wanted it ; and had to have his way. 

And then, with brown eyes burning with deep joy. 

He told me, that his son was going West — 

39 



THE SHOP 

Was going home . . . the doctor thought, next week, 

He'd be quite well enough : the way was long ; 

But trains were quick ; and he would soon be there : 

And on the journey he'd have every care. 

His mother being with him ... it was best. 

They thought, that she should go : he'd find it strange, 

The Uttle chap, at first . . . she needed change . . . 

And, when they'd had a whiff of Western air ; 

Twould cost a deal ; and there was naught to spare : 

But, what was money, if you hadn't health : 

And, what more could you buy, if you'd the wealth . . < 

Yes ! 'twould be lone for him, at first, and rough ; 

Though, on the whole, he'd manage well enough : 

He'd have a lot to do : and there was naught 

Like work to keep folks cheerful : when the hand 

Was busy, you had little time for thought; 

And thinking was the mischief . . . and 'twas grand 

To know that they'd be happy. Then the bell 

Went tinkle- tinkle; and he turned to sell. 

One night he greeted me with face that shone. 

Although the eyes were wistful ; they were gone — 

Had gone this morning, he was glad to say : 

And, though 'twas sore work, setting them away. 

Still, 'twas the best for them . . . and they would be 

Already in the cottage by the sea . . . 

He spoke no more of them ; but turned his head ; 

And said he wondered if the price of bread . . . 

And, as I went again into the night, 

I saw his eyes were glistening in the light. 

And, two nights after that, he'd got a letter : 
And all was well ; the boy was keeping better ; 

40 



THE SHOP 

And was as happy as a child could be, 
All day with the primroses and the sea, 
And pigs ! Of all the wonders of the West, 
His mother wrote, he liked the pigs the best. 
And now the father laughed until the tears 
Were in his eyes, and chuckled : Aye ! he knew ! 
Had he not been a boy there once, himself? 
He'd liked pigs, too, when he was his son's years. 
And then, he reached a half-loaf from the shelf; 
And twisted up a farthing's worth of tea. 
And farthing's worth of sugar, for the child, 
The same poor child, who waited patiently. 
Still shaken by a hacking, racking cough. 

And, all next day, the anvils rang with jigs : 

The bellows roared and rumbled with loud laughter, 

Until it seemed the workshop had gone wild. 

And it would echo, echo, ever after 

The tune the hammers tinkled on and off, 

A silly tune of primroses and pigs . . . 

Of all the wonders of the West 

He liked the pigs, he hked the pigs the best ! 

Next night, as I went in, I caught 

A strange, fresh smell. The postman had just brought 

A precious box from Cornwall, and the shop 

Was lit with primroses, that lay atop 

A Cornish pasty, and a pot of cream : 

And, as, with gentle hands, the father lifted 

The flowers his little son had plucked for him, 

He stood a moment in a far-off dream. 

As though in sweet remembrances he drifted 

On Western seas : and, as his eyes grew dim, 

41 



THE SHOP 

He stooped, and buried them in deep, sweet bloom ; 

Till, hearing, once again, the poor child's cough, 

He served her hurriedly, and sent her off. 

Quite happily, with thin hands filled with flowers. 

And, as I followed to the street, the gloom 

Was starred with primroses ; and many hours 

The strange, shy wonder and surprise 

Of that child's bright, enchanted eyes 

Lit up my heart, and brightened my dull room. 

Then, many nights the foundry kept me late 

With overtime ; and I was much too tired 

To go round by the shop ; but made for bed 

As straight as I could go : until one night 

We left off earlier, though 'twas after eight, 

I thought I'd like some news about the boy. 

I found the shop untended ; and the bell 

Tin- tinkle- tinkle- tinkled all in vain. 

And then I saw, through the half- curtained pane, 

The back-room was a very blaze of joy : 

And knew the mother and son had come safe back. 

And, as I slipped away, now all was well, 

I heard the boy shriek out, in shrill dehght ; 

"And, father, all the little pigs were black ! " 



4« 



FLANNAN ISLE 

" Though three men dwell on Flannan Isle 
To keep the lamp alight, 
As we steered under the lee, we caught 
No glimmer through the night." 

A passing ship at dawn had brought 
The news ; and quickly we set sail, 
To find out what strange thing might ail 
The keepers of the deep-sea light. 

The Winter day broke blue and bright, 
With glancing sun and glancing spray. 
As o'er the swell our boat made way. 
As gallant as a gull in flight. 

But, as we neared the lonely Isle ; 

And looked up at the naked height ; 

And saw the lighthouse towering white. 

With blinded lantern, that all night 

Had never shot a spark 

Of comfort through the dark, 

So ghostly in the cold sunlight 

It seemed, that we were struck the while 

With wonder all too dread for words. 

43 



FLANNAN ISLE 

And, as into the tiny creek, 

We stole beneath the hanging crag, 

We saw three queer, black, ugly birds — 

Too big, by far, in my belief, 

For guillemot or shag — 

Like seamen sitting bolt-upright 

Upon a half-tide reef : 

But, as we neared, they plunged from sight, 

Without a sound, or spurt of white. 

And still too mazed to speak. 

We landed ; and made fast the boat ; 

And climbed the track in single file, 

Each wishing he was safe afloat, 

On any sea, however far. 

So it be far from Flannan Isle : 

And still we seemed to climb, and climb. 

As though we'd lost all count of time. 

And so must cHmb for evermore. 

Yet, all too soon, we reached the door — 

The black, sun-blistered lighthouse-door, 

That gaped for us ajar. 

As, on the threshold, for a spell. 
We paused, we seemed to breathe the smell 
Of limewash and of tar. 
Familiar as our daily breath. 
As though 'twere some strange scent of death : 
And so, yet wondering, side by side. 
We stood a moment, still tongue-tied : 
And each with black foreboding eyed 
The door, ere we should fling it wide, 
To leave the sunlight for the gloom : 
44 



FLANNAN ISLE 

Till, plucking courage up, at last, 
Hard on each other's heels, we passed 
Into the living room. 

Yet, as we crowded through the door, 

We only saw a table, spread 

For dinner, meat and cheese and bread ; 

But all untouched ; and no one there : 

As though, when they sat down to eat, 

Ere they could even taste. 

Alarm had come ; and they in haste 

Had risen and left the bread and meat : 

For at the table-head a chair 

Lay tumbled on the floor. 

We listened ; but we only heard 
The feeble cheeping of a bird 
That starved upon its perch : 
And, listening still, without a word, 
We set about our hopeless search. 

We hunted high, we hunted low ; 

And soon ransacked the empty house ; 

Then o'er the Island, to and fro, 

We ranged, to hsten and to look 

In every cranny, cleft or nook 

That might have hid a bird or mouse : 

But, though we searched from shore to shore, 

We found no sign in any place : 

And soon again stood face to face 

Before the gaping door : 

And stole into the room once more 

As frightened children steal. 

45 



FLANNAN ISLE 

Aye : though we hunted high and low, 

And hunted everywhere, 

Of the three men's fate we found no trace 

Of any kind in any place, 

But a door ajar, and an untouched meal. 

And an overtoppled chair. 

And, as we listened in the gloom 

Of that forsaken living room — 

A chill clutch on our breath — 

We thought how ill-chance came to all 

Who kept the Flannan Light : 

And how the rock had been the death 

Of many a likely lad : 

How six had come to a sudden end, 

And three had gone stark mad : 

And one whom we'd all known as friend 

Had leapt from the lantern one still night, 

And fallen dead by the lighthouse wall : 

And long we thought 

On the three we sought. 

And of what might yet befall. 

Like curs, a glance has brought to heel. 

We Hstened, quaking there : 

And looked, and looked, on the untouched meal 

And the overtoppled chair. 

We seemed to stand for an endless while, 
Though still no word was said. 
Three men alive on Flannan Isle, 
Who thought on three men dead. 



46 



THE BLIND ROWER 

And since he rowed his father home, 

His hand has never touched an oar. 

All day he wanders on the shore, 

And hearkens to the breaking foam. 

Though blind from birth, he still could row 

As well as any lad with sight ; 

And knew strange things that none may know 

Save those who live without the hght. 

When they put out that Summer eve 
To sink the lobster-pots at sea, 
The sun was crimson in the sky ; 
And not a breath was in the sky, 
The brooding, thunder-laden sky. 
That, heavily and wearily, 
Weighed down upon the waveless sea, 
That scarcely seemed to heave. 

The pots were safely sunk ; and then 

The father gave the word for home : 

He took the tiller in his hand. 

And, in his heart already home, 

He brought her nose round towards the land, 

To steer her straight for home. 

47 



THE BLIND ROWER 

He never spoke, 

Nor stirred again : 

A sudden stroke, 

And he lay dead, 

With staring eyes, and lips of lead. 

The son rowed on, and nothing feared : 

And sometimes, merrily, 

He lifted up his voice, and sang. 

Both high and low, 

And loud and sweet : 

For he was ever gay at sea, 

And ever glad to row, 

And rowed as only blind men row : 

And Httle did the bUnd lad know 

That death was at his feet : 

For still he thought his father steered ; 

Nor knew that he was all alone 

With death upon the open sea. 

So, merrily, he rowed, and sang ; 

And, strangely on the silence rang 

That lonely melody. 

As, through the livid, brooding gloom, 

By rock and reef, he rowed for home — 

The bhnd man rowed the dead man home. 

But, as they neared the shore. 
He rested on his oar : 
And, wondering that his father kept 
So very quiet in the stern. 
He laughed, and asked him if he slept, 
And vowed he heard him snore just now. 
Though, when his father spoke no word, 
48 



THE BLIND ROWER 

A sudden fear upon him came : 
And, crying on his father's name, 
With quaking heart, he heard 
The water lapping on the shore ; 
And all his blood ran cold, to feel 
The shingle grate beneath the keel : 
And stretching over towards the stern. 
His knuckle touched the dead man's brow. 

But help was near at hand ; 

And safe he came to land : 

Though none has ever known 

How he rowed in, alone. 

And never touched a reef 

Some say they saw the dead man steer — 

The dead man steer the blind man home — 

Though, when they found him dead, 

His hand was cold as lead. 

So, ever restless, to and fro. 

In every sort of weather, 

The bhnd lad wanders on the shore. 

And hearkens to the foam. 

His hand has never touched an oar, 

Since they came home together — 

The blind, who rowed his father home — 

The dead, who steered his blind son home. 



49 



THE BROTHERS 

All morning they had quarrelled, as they worked, 

A little off their fellows, in the pit : 

Dick growled at Robert ; Robert said Dick shirked : 

And when the roof, dropt more than they had reckoned, 

Began to crack and split, 

Though both rushed like a shot to set 

The pit-props in their places. 

Each said the other was to blame, 

When, all secure, with flushed and grimy faces, 

They faced each other for a second. 

All morning they had quarrelled : yet. 

Neither had breathed her name. 

Again they turned to work : 

And in the dusty murk 

Of that black gallery 

Which ran out three miles underneath the sea, 

There was no sound at all. 

Save whispering creak of roof and wall. 

And crack of coal, and tap of pick, 

And now and then a rattling fall : 

While Robert worked on steadily, but Dick 

In fits and starts, with teeth clenched tight, 

And dark eyes flashing in his lamp's dull light. 

SO 



THE BROTHERS 

And when he paused, nigh spent, to wipe the sweat 

From off his dripping brow : and Robert turned 

To fling some idle jibe at him, the spark 

Of anger, smouldering in him, flared and burned — 

Though all his body quivered, wringing-wet — 

Till that black hole 

To him flamed red, 

As though the very coal 

Had kindled underfoot and overhead : 

Then, gripping tight his pick, 

He rushed upon his brother : 

But Robert, turning quick. 

Leapt up, and now they faced each other. 

They faced each other : Dick with arm upraised, 

In act to strike, and murder in his eyes. . . . 

When, suddenly, with noise of thunder, 

The earth shook round them, rumbling o'er and under ; 

And Dick saw Robert, lying at his feet : 

As, close behind, the gallery crashed in : 

And almost at their feet, earth gaped asunder. 

By black disaster dazed, 

His wrath died ; and he dropped the pick ; 

And staggered, dizzily and terror-sick. 

But, when the dust and din 

Had settled to a stillness, dread as death : 

And he once more could draw his breath ; 

He gave a little joyous shout 

To find the lamps had not gone out. 

And on his knees he fell 

Beside his brother, buried in black dust : 

And, full of tense misgiving, 

SI 



THE BROTHERS 

He raised him up, and thrust 

A knee beneath his head ; and cleared 

The dust from mouth and nose : but could not tell 

Awhile if he were dead or living. 

Too fearful to know what he feared, 

He fumbled at the open shirt, 

And felt till he could feel the heart, 

Still beating with a feeble beat : 

And then he saw the closed lids part, 

And saw the nostrils quiver ; 

And knew his brother lived, though sorely hurt 

Again he staggered to his feet, 

And fetched his water-can, and wet 

The ashy lips, and bathed the brow. 

Until his brother sat up with a shiver. 

And gazed before him with a senseless stare 

And dull eyes strangely set. 

Too well Dick knew that now 

They must not linger there. 

Cut off from all their mates, to be overtaken 

In less than no time by the deadly damp. 

So, picking up his lamp. 

He made his brother rise; 

Then took him by the arm. 

And shook him, till he'd shaken 

An inkling of the danger and alarm 

Into those dull, still eyes : 

Then dragged him, and half-carried him, in haste, 

To reach the airway, where Hwould still be sweet. 

When all the gallery was foul with gas : 

But, soon as they had reached it, they were faced 

By a big fall of roof they could not pass ; 

52 



THE BROTHERS 

And found themselves cut off from all retreat, 
On every hand by that black shining wall; 
With naught to do but sit and wait 
Till rescue came, if rescue came at all, 
And did not come too late. 

And, in the fresher airway, light came back 

To Robert's eyes, although he never spoke : 

And not a sound the deathly silence broke, 

As they sat gazing at that wall of black — 

As, in the glimmer of the dusky lamp. 

They sat and wondered, wondered if the damp — 

The stealthy after- damp that creeping, creeping. 

Takes strong men by the throat, and drops them sleeping. 

To wake no more for any woman's weeping — 

Would steal upon them ere the rescue came. . . . 

And if the rescuers would find them sitting. 

Would find them sitting cold. . . . 

Then, as they sat and wondered, like a flame 

One thought burned up both hearts : 

Still, neither breathed her name. 

And now their thoughts dropped back into the pit, 

And through the league-long gallery went flitting 

With speed no fall could hold. 

And wondered how their mates had fared : 

If they'd been struck stone-dead. 

Or if they shared 

Like fate with them, or reached the shaft, 

Unhurt, and only scared. 

Before disaster overtook them : 

And then, although their courage ne'er forsook them- 

They wondered once again if they must sit 

53 



THE BROTHERS 

Awaiting death . . . but knowing well 

That even for a while to dwell 

On such hke thoughts will drive a strong man daft : 

They shook themselves until their thoughts ran free 

Along the drift, and clambered in the cage ; 

And in a trice were shooting up the shaft : 

But when their thoughts had come to the pithead, 

And found the fearful people gathered there, 

Beneath the noonday sun, 

Bright-eyed with terror, blinded by despair, 

Dick rose, and with his chalk wrote on the wall, 

This message for their folk : 

" We can't get any further, 12, noonday," 

And signed both names ; and, when he'd done. 

Though neither of them spoke. 

They both seemed easier in a way, 

Now that they'd left a word. 

Though nothing but a scrawl. 

And silent still they sat, 

And never stirred : 

And Dick's thoughts dwelt on this and that : 

How, far above their heads, upon the sea 

The sun was shining merrily, 

And in its golden glancing 

The windy waves were dancing : 

And how he'd slipt that morning in the cage : 

And how oh Friday, when he drew his wage. 

He'd buy a blanket for his whippet, Nell ; 

He felt dead certain she would win the race, 

On Saturday . . . though you could never tell. 

There were such odds against her . . . but his face 

Lit up as though, even now, he saw her run, 

54 



THE BROTHERS 

A little slip of lightning in the sun. 

While Robert's thoughts were ever on the match 

His team was booked play on Saturday ; 

He placed the field, and settled who should play 

The centre-forward, for he had a doubt 

Will Burn was scarcely up to form, although . . . 

Just then the lamp went slowly out. 

Still, neither stirred, 

Nor spoke a word ; 

Though either's breath came quickly with a catch. 

And now again one thought 

Set both their hearts afire 

In one fierce flame 

Of tense desire : 

Though neither breathed her name. 

Then Dick stretched out his hand ; and caught 
His brother's arm ; and whispered in his ear : 
" Bob, lad, there's naught to fear . . . 
And, when we're out, lad, you and she shall wed." 

Bob gripped Dick's hand ; and then no more was said, 

As, slowly, all about them rose 

The deadly after-damp ; but close 

They sat together, hand in hand. 

Then their minds wandered ; and Dick seemed to stand 

And shout till he was hoarse 

To speed his winning whippet down the course . . . 

And Robert, with the ball 

Secure within his oster charged ahead 

SS 



THE BROTHERS 

Straight for the goal, and none could hold, 
Though many tried a fall. 

And now they dreamed that they were boys in bed, 

At home, and lying snugly by each other : 

And Dick, with both arms clasped about his brother, 

Whispered with faihng breath 

Into the ear of death : 

*^ Come, Robert, cuddle closer, lad, it's cold." 



S6 



THE FLUTE 

" Good-night ! ** he sang out cheerily : 

" Good-night ! " and yet again : " Good-night 

And I was gay that night to be 
Once more in my clean countryside, 
Among the windy hills and wide. 
Six days of city slush and mud, 
Of hooting horn, and spattering wheel, 
Made me rejoice again to feel 
The tingling frost that fires the blood, 
And sets life burning clear and bright ; 
And down the ringing road to stride 
The eager swinging stride that braces 
The straining thews from hip to heel : 
To breathe again the wind that sweeps 
Across the grassy, Northern steeps, 
From crystal deeps and starry spaces. 

And I was glad again to hear 

The old man's greeting of good cheer : 

For every night for many a year 

At that same corner we had met, 

Summer and Winter, dry and wet : 

57 



THE FLUTE 

And though I never once had heard 
The old man speak another word, 
His cheery greeting at the bend 
Seemed like the welcome of a friend. 

But, as we neared to-night, somehow, 
I felt that he would stop and speak : 
Though he went by : and when I turned, 
I saw him standing in the road, 
And looking back, with hand to brow, 
As if to shade old eyes, grown weak 
Awaiting the long sleep they'd earned : 
Though, as again towards him I strode, 
A friendly light within them burned. 
And then, as I drew nigh, he spoke 
With shaking head, and voice that broke : 
" IVe missed you these last nights," he said : 
" And I have not so many now 
That I can miss friends easily . . . 
Aye : friends grow scarce, as you grow old : 
And roads are rough : and winds are cold : 
And when you feel you're losing hold, 
Life does not go too merrily." 
And then he stood with shaking head. 
And spoke no more. And so I told 
How I had been, six days and nights, 
Exiled from pleasant sounds and sights. 
And now, as though my voice had stirred 
His heart to speech, he told right out, 
With quickening eye and quavering word, 
The things I care to hear about. 
The Httle things that make up life : 
How he'd been lonesome, since his wife 
58 



THE FLUTE 

Had died, some thirty year ago : 
And how he trudged three mile or so 
To reach the farmstead where he worked, 
And three mile back to his own door . . . 
For he lived outby on the moor : 
And every day the distance irked 
More sorely still his poor, old bones ; 
And all the road seemed strewn with stones 
To trip you up, when you were old — 
When you were old, and friends were few : 
How, since the farmstead had been sold, 
The master and the men were new, 
All save himself; and they were young; 
And Mistress had a raspy tongue : 
So, often, he would hardly speak 
A friendly word from week to week 
With any soul. Old friends had died, 
Or else had left the countryside : 
And, since his wife was taken, he 
Had lived alone, this thirty year : 
And there were few who cared to hear 
An old man's chatter . . . and too long 
He'd kept me, standing in the cold. 
With his long tongue, and such a song 
About himself ! And I would be . . . 

I put my arm through his ; and turned 
To go upon his way with him : 
And once again that warm light burned 
In those old eyes, so weak and dim : 
While, with thin, piping voice, he told 
How much it meant to him each night 
To change a friendly word with me : 

59 



THE FLUTE 

To think that he*d at least one friend 
Who'd maybe miss him, in the end. 

Then, as we walked, he said no more : 
And, silent, in the starry light. 
Across the wide, sweet- smelling bent. 
Between the grass and stars we went 
In quiet, friendly company : 
And, all the way, we only heard 
A chirrup where some partridge stirred, 
And ran before us through the grass, 
To hide his head till we should pass. 

At length, we reached the cottage-door : 
But, when I stopped, and turned to go, 
His words came falteringly and slow : 
If I would step inside, and rest, 
I'd be right welcome : not a guest 
Had crossed his threshold, thirty year . . . 
He'd naught but bread and cheese and beer 
To offer me . . . but, I'd know best . . . 

He spoke with hand upon the latch ; 
And, when I answered, opened wide 
The cottage-door ; and stepped inside j 
And, as I followed, struck a match, 
And lit a candle : and then stirred 
The banked-up peats into a glow : 
And then with shuffling step and slow 
He moved about : and soon had set 
Two mugs of beer, and bread and cheese : 
And while we made a meal off these. 
The old man never spoke a word ; 
60 



i 



4 



THE FLUTE 

But, sitting brooding in his seat, 
With eyes upon the kindUng peat, 
He seemed awhile to quite forget 
He was not sitting by himself 
To-night, like any other night ; 
When, as, in the dim candle-light, 
I glanced around me, w^h surprise 
I saw, upon the rafter- shelf, 
A flute, nigh hidden in the shade. 

And when I asked him if he played, 
The light came back into his eyes : 
Aye, aye, he sometimes played a bit, 
But not so often since she died. 
And then, as though old memories lit 
His poor, old heart, and made it glad. 
He told how he, when quite a lad. 
Had taught himself: and they would play 
On penny whistles all the day — 
He and the miller's son, beside 
The millpool, piping all they knew. 
Till they could whistle clean and true : 
And how, when old enough to earn. 
They both saved up to buy a flute ; 
And they had played it, turn for turn : 
But, Jake was dead, this long while back . . • 
Ah ! if I'd only heard him toot, 
I'd know what playing meant. Aye, aye . . . 
He'd play me something, bye-and-bye ; 
Though he was naught to Jake . . . and now 
His breath was scant, and fingering slack . . . 
He used to play to her at night 
The melodies that she liked best, 
6i 



THE FLUTE 

While she worked on : she'd never rest 
By daylight, or by candle-light . . . 
And then, with hand upon his brow, 
He brooded, quiet in his chair. 
With eyes upon the red peat-glare ; 
Until, at length, he roused himself, 
And reached the flute down from the shelf; 
And, carrying it outside the door, 
I saw him take a can, and pour 
Fresh water through the instrument. 
To make it sweet of tone, he said. 
Then, in his seat, so old and bent, 
With kindHng eyes, and swaying head, 
He played the tunes he used to play 
To please his wife, before she died : 
And as I watched his body sway 
In time and tune, from side to side, 
So happy, playing, and to please 
With old familiar melodies, 
His eyes grew brighter and more bright. 
As though they saw some well-loved sight : 
And, following his happy gaze, 
I turned, and saw, without amaze, 
A woman standing, young and fair. 
With hazel eyes, and thick brown hair 
Brushed smoothly backward from the brow, 
Beside the table that but now, 
Save for the empty mugs was bare. 
Upon it she had spread a sheet : 
And stood there, ironing a shirt, 
Her husband's, as he played to her 
Her favourite tunes, so old and sweet. 
I watched her move with soundless stir ; 
62 



' 



THE FLUTE 

Then stand with listening eyes, and hold 

The iron near her glowing cheek, 

Lest it, too hot, should do some hurt, 

And she, so careful not to burn 

The well-darned shirt, so worn and old. 

Then, something seemed to make me turn 

To look on the old man again : 

And, as I looked, the playing stopped ; 

And now I saw that he had dropped 

Into his brooding mood once more. 

With eyes again grown dull and weak. 

He seemed the oldest of old men 

Who grope through life with sight grown dim ; 

And, even as I looked at him. 

Too full of tender awe to speak, 

I knew once more the board was bare. 

With no young woman standing there 

With hazel eyes and thick, brown hair; 

And I, in vain, for her should seek. 

If I but sought this side death's door. 

And so, at last, I rose, and took 

His hand : and as he clasped mine tight, 

I saw again that friendly look 

Fill his old weary eyes with light, 

And wish me, without words, good-night. 

And in my heart, that look glowed bright 

Till I reached home across the moor. 

And, at the corner of the lane, 
Next night, I heard the old voice cry 
In greeting, as I struggled by. 
Head-down against the wind and rain. 

63 



]KW 29 191' 



THE FLUTE 

And so each night, until one day, 
His master chanced across my way : 
But, when I spoke of him, he said : 
Did I not know the man was dead. 
And had been dead a week or so? 
One morn he'd not turned up to work, 
And never having known him shirk, 
And hearing that he Hved alone, 
He thought it best himself to go 
And see what ailed : and coming there, 
He found the old man in his chair. 
Stone-dead beside the cold hearthstone. 
It must be full a week, or more . . . 
Aye, just two weeks, come Saturday, 
He'd found him ; but he must have died 
O'ernight — (the night I heard him play !) 
And they had found, dropt by his side, 
A broken flute upon the floor. 

Yet, every night, his greeting still 

At that same corner of the hill. 

Summer and Winter, wet or dry, 

'Neath cloud, or moon, or cold starlight, 

Is waiting there to welcome me : 

And ever as I hurry by. 

The old voice sings out cheerily : 

" Good-night ! " and yet again, " Good-night ! " 

igio-iTQii. 



64 

LBAp12 



FIRES 



BY 

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 

AUTHOR OF "DAILY BREAD" 



NetD gark 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1912 

All rights reser%*ed 



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